


Tonic & Gin

by rhostheirin



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Modern AU, Red Dead Depression, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25443649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhostheirin/pseuds/rhostheirin
Summary: Arthur Morgan is stuck in a rut. His turbulent ex-wife has left him and he drinks far too much. His friends worry about him greatly and he barely leaves his apartment. However, on a chance night out he meets a woman who can give him exactly what he needs.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader, Mary Gillis Linton/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66





	Tonic & Gin

**John** [18:28]: _Meeting in Valentine for drinks at 8. You in? Hosea wants to talk to us about curtains and wallpaper. Please come, this ain’t my forte._

 **Arthur** [18:30]: _Sorry. I have stuff to do._

Arthur sighs heavily as he shoves his phone back into his pocket and he presses _start_ on the microwave. He opens the fridge and pulls out a beer amidst the empty cartons of milk and three-day-old pizza. He uncaps the bottle and takes a large gulp, just in time as the microwave soon dings to tell him that his two-dollar chicken curry is done. He takes it out, pushing the cluster of unopened mail off the small dinner table onto the floor, and begins to eat his lukewarm meal. His apartment is sparsely decorated, with only a few photos of his friends on a shelf in the lounge and a yellow dreamcatcher above his bed that was a gift from Charles. When he is done, he puts the packaging in, or rather on, the overflowing bin and lays on the couch as he switches on the television. He does not know what the programme is but that does not matter as he is not really paying attention anyway. His phone buzzes again.

 **John** [19:01]: _You’re a busy man Arthur. You’re always doing ‘stuff’._

 **John** [19:02]: _Come on man, you need to leave that disgusting apartment of yours eventually. We’re all worried about you._

 **John** [19:03]: _She ain’t coming back. You have to move on._

Arthur closes the messenger app and buries the truth underneath a pillow. He is not sure exactly when he had drifted off to sleep but he awakes suddenly with a jolt to the sound of the children from across the hall of his apartment playing tig just outside his door. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and checks his phone again. No new messages. He does not know why he still keeps checking. He knows by now that she won’t call. But he still hopes. He gets up and goes to the fridge but, to his dismay, there is no alcohol left. He sighs, grabs his keys and wallet, and leaves the apartment.

The off-license is just a short walk from his place and it is just about the only positive thing about living in Rhodes. He enters the small shop and puts a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “Gin please,” he says, barely making eye contact with the man behind the counter.

“Oh, I’m real sorry mister but we’re all sold out,” the man says with a kind voice.

Arthur inhales, trying to contain his irritation. “You ain’t got a single bottle left? What about whiskey?”

“None of that either. A fella came in earlier and bought the whole lot. Guess he was having some kind of party. O’Driscoll, I think his name was. Runs that karaoke bar in Saint Denis. You could go there and get some. Sorry again.”

Arthur nods as politely as he can, takes back his twenty dollars and heads back home to get his car. Like him, the car is getting old, scruffy, and falling apart. But it was his first car and he doesn’t have the heart to get rid of it just yet. _You don’t know how to let go of things_ ; Hosea often tells him. _To your own detriment._ Perhaps the old man is right. He usually is. And Arthur usually doesn’t realise that until it’s too late.

He parks his rusty vehicle on the street and checks several times that it is locked, aware of the criminal nature of Saint Denis. He looks at the large green and gold sign above the door that reads ‘O’Driscoll’s Karaoke Bar’. _No prizes for creativity_ , he thinks as he passes under the tacky sign and into the bar. The interior of the place is no more classy than the outside but it is packed to the brim with people who have come to drink their troubles away. The leather seats are worn and have tears in them, there isn’t much light except for a few weak and flickering bulbs, and the faded carpet is so sticky the soles of his cowboy boots almost become one with the floor. The smell of sweat, whiskey and cigarette smoke permeates the air. A black grand piano sits on an empty stage opposite the bar, untouched. Arthur takes in a deep breath through his mouth and heads over the bar, pushing his way through the crowds and hoping to be out of here as soon as possible.

“Bottle of gin please,” he asks the young red-haired man behind the bar.

“We have half off gin and tonic all night, can I interest you in a glass instead?” he replies in a thick Irish accent.

“Just the bottle please friend,” Arthur responds firmly. He just wants to go home and drink so much that he blacks out, is that too much to ask?

“Alright, that’s twenty dollars then please.”

Arthur digs into his pocket to pull out his wallet. His jeans are also worn out and need replacing and the plaid shirt he wears is the last of his clean shirts, the rest piling up in the washing basket as they remain ignored. When he puts his hand in his jean pocket, he realises that his wallet is not there. “Ah shit, I think I left my wallet in the car.”

“I’ll get it,” he hears a voice say beside him. He is pretty sure it’s a woman’s voice but he does not pay too much attention.

“I don’t need charity,” he snaps back, without even looking at her, and immediately regrets it. “Sorry,” he says, turning to his left to see the person whom the voice belonged to. To his surprise, the woman is young, around mid-twenties, and has a pretty face. _Too pretty for this place,_ he thinks. She appears to be alone, which worries him slightly. As he noted before, the nature of Saint Denis is not kind. Especially to women. “I didn’t mean to yell at ya there. It’s just been a long day.”

“That why you buying an entire bottle of straight gin?” she says smiling, unaffected by his rude outburst.

“Yeah,” he says quietly and she pays the man for the gin.

“I’ll just have to get some more from the back, we’ve run out up here,” the barman informs them and they both nod as he disappears momentarily. 

“So does your drinking problem have anything to do with that ring on your finger you’ve been playing with since you got here?” she asks inquisitively.

He looks down to see that he has indeed been playing with it but he didn’t even notice. He does a lot absentmindedly these days as he is usually somewhere else in his head. “Okay, first of all, I don’t have a drinking problem-”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” she cuts him off. He wants to be angry that this woman has known him for approximately two minutes and she is already poking her nose into his private life. But she’s right. Who is he trying to convince? His diet or more liquid than solid and he can’t even remember the last time he smiled.

“I don’t need to prove myself to anyone, least of all a stranger,” he says, turning his direction back towards the bar, praying that the man would come back for his drink soon.

“Why does it look like I’ve struck a nerve then?” She _has_ struck a nerve. He’s been left in the lurch with nothing, how can he not be hurting? “Look Mister, I meant no offence. Just that folks that come in here are usually missing somethin’ from their lives. They want someone to talk to but don’t know how to ask for help. So they look for answers in the bottom of a glass. You look like you need some answers is all.”

“So what business do you have here? You come to pray on the vulnerable men here?”

She chuckles at his comment which surprises him a little as he must be coming across as an arrogant brute right now. He does not know what’s gotten into himself lately. He is normally not this rude but he just wants his gin. And most importantly, to be alone. “No, I’m just as much of a lost soul. Moved here from South Carolina looking for…somethin’. Not sure what that is yet.”

“Well, uh, I hope ya find it. You really think whatever it is is in Lemoyne though?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But life is all about taking risks, right?” She smiles and he nods in return. But he does not agree. He doesn’t take risks anymore. Taking risks has left him almost middle-aged and alone.

Finally, the man comes back and hands him the bottle he has been waiting so long for. “I’ll er, go get you your money then,” says Arthur.

“It’s alright. It’s on me,” she says with a soft smile. “Spend the money on a haircut.”

He is shocked by the kindness of this stranger, especially in this part of the country. And she’s right again, he probably does need a haircut. “That’s very kind of you miss but I can’t accept.”

“Sure you can. Why don’t you stay? Keep me company?” Her voice is sweet and her Y/E/C eyes glisten gently as they reflect the flickering light above them. It is only now that he realises just how pretty she is. She is wearing a black top, a denim skirt, and similar boots to his. He has no idea why she is so interested in him.

Part of him wants to walk away. Go home. Get pissed beyond insanity. Alone. But it’s not what he _really_ wants to do. He really wants to go back in time and undo all the mistakes that he has made to get him to here. It’s impossible, he knows full well, but talking to a pretty girl may help. At least temporarily. He easily caves into her innocent expression and they take a seat in a booth far away from the bar. It’s hardly secluded but it’s the most private they can get. She brings over some tonic water and pours it into his glass against his will. He pulls a face that he thought was just internal but she begins to laugh. He really loves her laugh. Like a childish giggle but also with an air of mystery. She coveys both innocence and experience at the same time and it honestly confuses him.

“Trust me, you’ll thank me in the mornin’,” she says as she empties the bottle of tonic into his gin glass.

“I have a pretty high tolerance.”

“I don’t doubt it. I’m Y/N Y/L/N by the way. Don’t think I ever actually said.”

“Arthur. Arthur Morgan.” He takes a big gulp from his glass like he has not had a drink in days, earning a slightly judging look from Y/N.

“So, what was she like?” she asks, leaning forward on her elbows and resting her chin in her palms, staring up at him intently.

“Who?”

“Mrs Morgan.” She points to his wedding ring and he rolls his eyes at her.

“You seriously want to know about my failed marriage?”

She nods and takes a sip of her whiskey, a lot more elegantly than him. “It never hurts to know that someone else’s life is just as much of a fuck up as your own.”

He chuckles and scratches his head awkwardly. “Well, there ain’t really much to tell. She walked out on me two months ago and I haven’t heard a word from her since.”

“She just upped and left? Without telling you?”

“Yeah, no warning or nothin’. Not even a note with an address or a time when she’ll be back. So, I just been kinda…stuck in limbo I guess.”

“Wow. That’s cold. So it’s over then?”

“I guess. She’s walked out on me before but she always comes back. We fight a lot these days but this time it just feels _different_. It really feels like she’s gone for good.”

“Have you ever tried, oh I don’t know, talking to each other about your problems?”

He laughs hard at that, so hard that everyone around them gives him a funny stare and he sheepishly retreats back into the comfort of the booth. “Talk? To Mary? She won’t talk because then she might have to admit she’s wrong about somethin’ and we can’t have that.” He takes another huge gulp, remembering the many _many_ fights they have had over something that is usually insignificant. And Arthur is _always_ the one in the wrong. For a while, he thought that it was true but after he met Eliza, became a father, he began to doubt the validity of Mary’s claims. But she was always able to control him, no matter what he thought of himself. Always has and probably always will. “Anyway, what about you?” he asks, desperately trying to divert the conversation away from himself. “How’d you end up here?”

“I was sick of being a small-town girl. So I dropped a pin of a map of the states and wound up here.”

“That pin sure does hate you then.”

“It’s not so bad. It smells pretty bad, most the men are ugly, and it’s quite racist. But it has some charm.”

He laughs at her explanation, unable to deny it. He thinks about moving away all the time but his job is here. His friends are here. And most importantly his son is here. And he’d be damned if he abandoned that boy and became his own father. “You’re not wrong. What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a musician. Well, I’m trying to be. You play any instruments?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m completely useless in that regard. Unless you count the harmonica.”

“Ah, the most complex of instruments!”

They both laugh and eventually her eye line drifts onto something other than Arthur. He follows and sees that it lands on the piano on the small stage across the room. “No,” he says immediately, catching on pretty fast to what she is thinking.

“Come on, show me your harmonica skills!” she demands giddily

“No one wants to hear me play the harmonica,” he grumbles.

“Sure they do! Pleaaase,” she begs and he finds himself unable to say no to this stranger yet again. She drags him by the hand up to the stage and hands him the harmonica. She sits comfortably on the piano stool. She gestures for him to sit beside her and she flicks through the sheet music.

“Uh, what if I don’t know the song?” he asks, hoping he won’t so he has an excuse to not play. He could say that anyway since he’s hardly a virtuoso.

“You will know it,” she assures. The page lands on a classic and he sighs in exasperation as literally everyone knows the song. He had hoped that no one would pay them any attention as most people had been doing their own thing in the bar so far and plenty were already too wasted to stand upright. But people soon perk up as they hear Y/N tuning the piano and wiping the thick layer of dust off the keys.

“Y/N I really can’t sing.”

“It’s a karaoke bar Arthur, not American Idol.” He finally relents and sits beside her. “You ready?” she asks and he nods. She starts to play.

♫♫ _It's nine o'clock on a Saturday_

_The regular crowd shuffles in_

_There's an old man sitting next to me_

_Makin' love to his tonic and gin_

_He says, "Son, can you play me a memory_

_I'm not really sure how it goes_

_But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete_

_When I wore a younger man's clothes"_ ♫♫

As the song goes by Arthur starts to enjoy himself more and more and he even starts to join in with the singing, even though he is sure that he sounds terrible. Y/N sounds amazing though and he is sure that she will be a famous musician someday. He is glad he stayed out tonight. With her.

♫♫ _Now Paul is a real estate novelist_

_Who never had time for a wife_

_And he's talkin' with Davy, who's still in the Navy_

_And probably will be for life_

_And the waitress is practising politics_

_As the businessmen slowly get stoned_

_Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness_

_But it's better than drinkin' alone_

_Sing us a song you're the piano man_

_Sing us a song tonight_

_Well we're all in the mood for a melody_

_And you got us feeling alright_ ♫♫

* * *

“And then Lenny walks in on John and Abigail going at it and full-on screams the whole place down. I swear people could hear him in New York. Poor kid was scarred for life,” Arthur recounts as he walks down the road with Y/N. He is not sure whether she is supposed to be propping him up or if he is supposed to be helping her but either way it isn’t working as both of them are stumbling all over the place.

“I guess it’s one way to learn about the birds and the bees,” she jokes, clinging onto his arm for dear life.

“Not when you’re a kid yourself! He’s never been able to look John in the eye since. Probably best not to look at John for long periods of time anyway. Like staring at the sun, it’ll eventually make ya go blind.”

She giggles into his shoulder and every time she laughs at a joke of his he feels his self-esteem grow ever so slightly. “I don’t know this John but I am sure that you’re being incredibly harsh Mr Morgan.”

“He knows I love him really.”

Y/N starts to slow down and stops in front of a red door. “This is me,” she says, pointing to said door.

“I uh…guess I should say thank you then. My night turned out a lot better than I expected it to be. You’re somethin’ special Y/N,” he says fondly.

“You ain’t so bad yourself Morgan. And you’re pretty damn good on the harmonica.”

“I-” he pauses mid-sentence as a sudden wave of sickness hits him.

“Are you alright?”

“I think I’m gonna puke!” he says and Y/N quickly unlocks the door for him. He bolts up the stairs leading to her apartment.

“Bathroom is second door on your left!” she shouts from behind.

Once Arthur has heaved his guts up, he leaves the bathroom awkwardly. Of course he embarrasses himself in front of a beautiful woman who, for some strange and unknown reason, actually seemed to be into him beforehand. That was what his life was, after all, one big embarrassment.

“Hey!” she says when he walks from the bathroom and into the open kitchen where she is sat at the dinner table, scrolling through her phone. Her house is quaintly decorated with cute antique decorations and pastel colours. The decoration says a lot about her personality which only makes him think about the bareness of his own apartment. “I made you this. Drink it, it cures any hangover.”

He takes the cup and downs it, almost puking again over the abhorrent taste. “What the hell is in that?”

“Mama’s secret recipe,” she replies and giggles again. “I know it tastes like diarrhoea but trust me it works.”

“Well uh, thank you. I suppose I should be going,” he says. He doesn’t want to go, but he has probably already overstayed his welcome and she was practically forced to invite him in.

“You can’t leave with puke on your shirt.” He looks down and she was not wrong, he did manage to smear it on his shirt. What must she think of him now? “And you’re _way_ over the limit sunshine. You can stay here tonight if you like, the couch turns into a bed. That is if trust me not to murder you in your sleep.”

“Well, that is a concern.” He strokes his chin as a joke but yes, dear God, he wants to stay here tonight rather than going back to his lonely, miserable apartment.

“I promise if I murder you in your sleep, I’ll warn you first.”

“Much obliged.”

“You can have the shirt I sleep in. It should fit you.” She gets up from her seat and goes into the bedroom, emerging with said t-shirt. It is black, has the _Queen_ logo on it, and is far too big for her. _And it smells really good_ , he thinks as she hands it to him. He tries to ignore the thought but he cannot help the growing feeling of arousal. He removes his puke-covered shirt and she quickly puts it in the washing machine. He is about to put the new t-shirt on when he catches her staring at him.

“Or you could just not wear a shirt,” she says in a different tone to what she has used with him before. Was she flirting? With him? He initially assumes that she is just joking but her expression says otherwise. She moves closer to him and takes the shirt from his hand and throws it on the floor. Then her lips are on his and it takes him a couple of seconds to register what is going on before he too melts into the kiss. He wants to push her away. He wants to tell her that he is not good enough. But he is so touch starved that he simply cannot. Instead, he pulls her closer to him and falls backwards, the back of his legs hitting the arm of the couch as he stumbles backwards. He ends up on his back on the couch and with Y/N on top of him, laughing. And what a sight it is.

She pulls her own top over her head and begins to plant gentle kisses from his abdomen in a trail upwards to his collar bone. Her gentle hand reaches behind his neck and buries itself within his hair as she sucks on his bare neck. Not really knowing what to do with his hands, he places them on her hips and she starts to grind into him which causes him to now be fully hard. His hips move against her as if they have a mind of their own and his hands start to absentmindedly trace the small of her back in concentric circles. She moves her mouth back to his, pushing her tongue past his lips almost aggressively. He is not used to this. He is not used to this at all. Intimacy with Mary…well it could barely even be called intimate. He was never really sure that she even enjoyed sex with him and he doesn’t even remember the night he spent with Eliza so that had left him feeling pretty insecure about his abilities. But Mary never kissed him like _this_. Made him feel this _wanted_. Maybe it wasn’t him all along.

His mind doesn’t stay on Mary for too long. How could it when Y/N was currently undoing the buckle of his belt and pulling down his boxers? She takes him in her mouth, doing things that no one had ever done to him before. He moves his hands down to her hair and entangles them in her gorgeous locks, pushing her head down and thrusting himself deep into her mouth instinctively. He panics momentarily, worrying that this was too much and that he might have hurt her, but she carries on, undeterred. He is so close already and she can tell. She stops for a brief moment to look at him. “Don’t stop,” he says, again instinctively.

“That was just a warm-up Morgan,” she says as she removes the rest of their clothing and Arthur’s heart rate increases to subhuman standards. _She looks perfect,_ he thinks. _Like a fucking Greek goddess._ He knows he is not worthy of this but he can’t stop now. His hands snake their way up her naked body and rest on her breasts. He plays with each nipple gently, pinching them slightly, which she seems to enjoy and this does absolutely nothing to decrease his arousal. He wants to be inside her so badly. Boy is he glad that the off-licence had run out of gin. He definitely owes Colm O’Driscoll a drink some time.

She lowers down onto him, his large hands staying firmly on her breasts as she grinds again, riding him hard. His hands move to her hips yet again and he digs his nails into her skin, not meaning to cause her harm. He comes back into reality and is about to apologise and beg for forgiveness when she pushes down on his shoulders and digs her nails into his skin too. But it feels good so he picks up the pace, slamming into her as fast as he can and she quickly matches his pace. It does not take much longer for either of them to reach their climax, both of them moaning and writhing in pleasure. She lifts herself up and then rests her head on his chest as they both come down from their high. She rests her hand on his chest as his breathing gradually slows, tracing circles along his chest hair as they both calm down. He cannot even talk yet, still in awe of what just happened. _This_ was what it was meant to be like? He had thought for certain, when he sat alone in the apartment with his shitty microwave meals, that all he wanted was Mary to walk through the door and to take him back. But now he is not so sure. Did she ever really love him? Did he love her? What did he want now? 

After some time, Y/N gets up off the couch and brings him a glass of water. He sits up and drinks, not realising just how thirsty he really was. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight if you don’t want to,” she says as he puts his glass down on the side table. He stands up and takes her hand as she leads him to the bedroom, closing the door behind them.

**Author's Note:**

> May or may not do more of this, not decided yet :D


End file.
